


Superheroes

by endlesshorizons



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brothers, Bullying, Childhood, Gen, I wrote something not angst?, Kid Fic, Kidlock, Life Lessons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-27
Updated: 2014-09-27
Packaged: 2018-02-18 23:03:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2365253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/endlesshorizons/pseuds/endlesshorizons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft was quiet for a moment. Then, he tugged on Sherlock's hand and urged him to come out of the corner. "Come," Mycroft said, "I'll teach you how to fly."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Superheroes

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Супергерои](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3600285) by [faikit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/faikit/pseuds/faikit)



> Inspired by "Superheroes" by The Script. Can't wait for the rest of the album to come out in North America!

_"When you've been fighting for it all your life_  
 _You've been struggling to make things right_  
 _That's how a superhero learns to fly"_  
\- The Script, "Superheroes"

  


Sherlock sat with his back against the brick wall. He nestled into the corner he had chosen for himself. On his left, their old fence with the peeling white paint rose above his five-year-old body, and the bush Daddy planted years ago stood guard in front of him. He was glad to be home after a day at school, away from the other children and Mrs. Kitchener with her narrow black eyes staring down at him. He wondered, not for the first time, why he had to go to school. Nobody liked him there, and he didn't like being there either.

"You'll learn lots and lots of new things at school, Sherlock," Mummy had said many weeks ago, before the leaves on the trees turned orange and the sun still shone long into the evenings. Sherlock had been excited. He loved discovering new things. He wanted to explore the world, to sail off into the oceans with a ship and a sword and Redbeard at his side.

"You can be a pirate when you grow up," Daddy had said, "when you're big and strong and know lots of things about the world. Then you can do whatever you want. But now, you have to go to school. Maybe you'll meet a friend who will want to explore with you."

So Sherlock had held Mummy's hand and walked up to the enormous front gates, wide-eyed and imagining the open oceans and blue skies on the other side.

But the insides of Cunningham Primary School didn't look like voluminous clouds or rolling waves. Instead, it was all straight lines and ink-stained desks and "stay _still_ , Sherlock!" Mrs. Kitchener wasn't like Mummy. Her lips were sharp like a ruler and her eyes flat as the chalkboard and she didn't run a hand through his curls and say, "what else?" She was never happy with Sherlock, and he didn't understand why. "Stop talking, Sherlock," she would say, or "stop running about," or "stop asking useless questions." Sherlock looked at the world and wanted to run and jump and fly but all he heard was "stop."

Soon, the other children stopped talking to Sherlock, as well. They said "you're such a know-it-all!" and whispered when he walked past. Ginny Davies had cried when he told her she was doing her sums wrong and her friends had crowded around him at break time and shoved dirt down his shirt. School was stupid and other kids were stupid and Sherlock just wanted everything to be the way it used to be, when he woke up to the smell of Mummy's bread baking in the oven and spent the days wandering through Mummy's study and watched bees skitter from one blossom to another in Daddy's flowerbeds.

Now, Sherlock was curled up in his special spot in the backyard, his arms around his knees and his curls getting caught in the jagged splinters of the fence and the messy branches poking out from the bush. He wondered if he nuzzled in far enough and made himself small enough, maybe he could sink into the soil and the leaves and never have to come out again.

That was what Sherlock was thinking about when a hand suddenly pushed away the branches and a large, blotchy face took its place.

"What's wrong?" his big brother asked, reaching out to pull him out of the corner.

"Nothing," Sherlock replied, turning his head and looking away, but he couldn't stop the one little teardrop from crawling out the corner of his eye.

"I'm not stupid, Sherlock, I know something's wrong," Mycroft said, and it wasn't fair, because Mycroft was always clever and he was never wrong and everyone loved him for it.

Sherlock turned back to look at his brother, angry and petulant and his eyes still wet. "Nobody at school likes me!" he said, folding his arms.

Mycroft frowned for a second, before the thin lines on his forehead smoothed away. "You don't know that," he said.

"It's true!" Sherlock told him. "Reggie and the other boys were playing superheroes at break today. I wanted to be Superman but they wouldn't let me because I can't fly." He felt another tear creeping out of his eye and reached up to scrub at it angrily. "But Henry can't fly either, and they let him be Superman!"

Mycroft was quiet for a moment. Then, he tugged on Sherlock's hand and urged him to come out of the corner. "Come," Mycroft said, "I'll teach you how to fly."

Sherlock's head snapped up, his mouth opened wide. "Really?"

"Yes, really. But it's not easy," Mycroft warned.

Sherlock nodded. He followed Mycroft as the older boy went into the house to grab his backpack. They walked back into the yard and settled down in the grass under the large oak tree. Mycroft pulled out a textbook from the bag and a blank notepad.

"Can you fold a paper aeroplane, Sherlock?"

He nodded. Mycroft ripped off a page from the notepad and handed it to him. Sherlock set the piece of paper on the ground and pressed down to create folds like Daddy had shown him. When he was done, he drew his arm back and threw the aeroplane outwards. It rushed forward for a brief moment but it soon began wavering in the air, tipping from side to side before finally doing a somersault and falling onto the grass. Sherlock stared at the flimsy thing where it laid, unmoving amongst the blades of grass swaying gently in the wind.

"You need to make it more symmetrical," Mycroft said, nudging Sherlock's shoulder. He picked the aeroplane up and stretched out the crudely-made folds. Slowly and carefully, under Sherlock's attentive gaze, he lined up the edges and pressed down evenly. When Mycroft let his aeroplane go with a quick flick of his wrist, it flew out in a graceful swoop before dropping to the ground.

"Want to know how it does that?" Mycroft asked. Sherlock nodded, eagerly. His brother pushed the textbook on the ground towards him. "It's all in here," he continued, flipping through the pages until he came to a diagram with a baseball travelling in the air with arrows pointing outwards. "And not just paper aeroplanes. Real ones too, and helicopters and rocket ships." He pointed at a line with letters and symbols like the ones in Mummy's books. "This will teach you how to fly."

Sherlock fell upon the book in wonder, turning the pages to see more diagrams and equations and lines and lines of words, strange words with so many letters that made Sherlock think of the long white trails planes leave across the sky. "You'll teach me what this means?"

"Of course."

Sherlock looked up at his big brother. "You know everything, don't you, Mycroft?"

"No," the older boy replied. He paused. "Not yet."

"But you will one day," Sherlock said with conviction, feeling the words with every thump of his heart. "Someday, you'll know everything and I'll know how to fly. We'll be superheroes!"

Mycroft smiled at him, sunlight streaming through the branches of the oak tree and lighting on his glittering blue eyes. "Yes," he said, "someday. And no one will be able to stop us."


End file.
